Pretty Boy From Halfway Around the World

Written by: Anonymous Guest Contributor                                                       Edited by: benhasoo

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I was halfway around the world when I met him. I felt his eyes on me before I looked up to see him. His gaze was puzzled and he asked me, “My face is on your shirt.”  

“Are you sure?” I replied. People only said those things in movies.

“Yeah, that’s definitely me.”

Looked down on instinct. No shit. His face was on my shirt.

“Yeah, I guess you are.” My mouth betrayed me by smiling. “You look different in real life,” I added.

“Well, I think I look better on you,” he shot back quickly.

I laughed, and the game was over. I think I look better on you? It was a pretty good line, but things are always more romantic in airports. Walked away smiling, never turned around. He had faith in the system, I could tell. A nice girl would love him.

————— 

Jimmy and the Dream, Part 1 (2000)

And now, a tale well calculated to keep you in SUSPENSE! Today’s story, “Jimmy and the Dream, Part I,” is brought to you by the Department of Propaganda™ – The good vibe provider since 1901.

It was a Saturday night and just a week before Halloween. Jimmy’s parents were on their way to attend his father’s company party. The parents had been trying all week to find a babysitter for that night, but every sitter in town seemed to be unavailable. You see, Jimmy was twelve years old and not quite ready to be left at home alone. He had always been a quiet boy, kept very much to himself most of the time, but there was something about Jimmy that kept the sitters from ever coming back a second night. Jimmy’s parents never knew what it was that drove them away because none of the sitters ever talked about it, even amongst themselves. But the one thing the sitters did say when leaving the house was that little Jimmy would have been better off left alone. After exhausting every possible option, Jimmy’s parents decided that this might finally be the night that Jimmy would learn to be home alone. After all, it was only going to be for two hours, and Jimmy’s favorite radio programs were on that night and should keep him occupied. And if something were to happen, all he had to do was pick up the receiver and ask the operator for the police. After making sure that Jimmy knew and understood all this, and Jimmy promising that he wouldn’t be scared, his parents locked the front door and started up the street.

“I don’t know about this, honey. I think we should just go back home. We don’t need to go do we? I’m sure Mr. Sheldon will understand.”

“We’ve gone over this before, dear. A position as partner just opened up and I’m next in line for a promotion. We need to attend this function to make sure I make partner.”

“But can’t you just go? I should go back home and spend the night with Jimmy. I-I’ll help him with his math homework.”

“Mr. Sheldon really wants to meet you, and all the other partners will be there with their wives. Besides, just the other day Mrs. Golden told us Jimmy was better at math than anyone else in his grade! I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“You really think he’ll be fine?”

“Look, after dinner and Mr. Sheldon’s speech I’ll introduce you to him and, after a quick chat, we’ll apologize and make an excuse to leave early. I’ll think of something good. It might not make the best impression, but we’ll be home after an hour and a half at the most. How does that sound?”

“I still don’t think Jimmy’s ready to be left home alone, but if you promise to leave soon after dinner then I guess I can live with that.”

“Well, let’s hurry up then. It’s strange—this fog is getting thicker and thicker by the second. Look, you can barely see up to the next lamp post. Maybe we can get a lift back home.”

“I hope so.”

Stay tuned for Part II of “Jimmy and the Dream.” A tale well calculated to keep you in SUSPENSE! From your friend and neighbor at the Department of Propaganda™: Sweet dreams! (1)

 

(Untitled, 2002)

I was staring out the window and finishing a cigar from last night when someone knocked on my door. I didn’t answer but the redhead walked in anyways. I had my chair turned away from the door so I couldn’t see her. But the sound of her heels on my hardwood was just what I needed.

“Are you Fred?” she asked. She had a smooth, tempting voice, and I was hoping she had a smooth, tempting figure to go with it.

“That’s what it says on my door,” I replied. I let out one last breath of smoke from the corner of my mouth as I spun my chair around to face her. One look and I knew what she wanted, and it wasn’t me. “Who died, kid?” I casually asked. I pushed the box of tissue that I kept on my desk towards her—I hate to see a pretty woman cry.

“My husband was murdered,” I answered. One look at Fred and I knew he was just the kind of dick I was looking for. I reached for a tissue. “Can you help me…Fred?”

“That’s what it says on my card,” he replied. I took a tissue from the box and dabbed my eyes dry. I didn’t want my makeup to run. He opened the center drawer of his desk and put out his cigar in it. He took out a notepad, brushed ashes off the cover, and shut the drawer. He took the pencil from behind his right ear and I told him what had happened.

[...]

Her story was as full of holes as my last paycheck, but I kept my mouth shut—I needed the money. She looked at the snow globe on my table the whole time she talked and tore the tissue in her hands to shreds. It’s been so long that I don’t even remember where and when I got the globe. I looked at her the whole time—her hair, her ears, her eyes, her nose, and her crimson lips that seemed to move in slow motion and didn’t say what I wanted to hear—and didn’t write a single thing down. There was something she wasn’t telling me. There’s always something these pretty dames don’t tell me, and it’s never to stop looking down their blouse. (1)

(unfinished)

He Said/She Said

She said, “Something’s bothering you. You can tell me if it’ll help.”
He said, “I don’t know what I want anymore.”
She said, “Well, but you know what you don’t want.”
He said, “I thought I did. But sometimes I end up wanting it…when it’s too late.”
She said, “It’s never too late.”
He said, “You’re right, it’s never too late. But it’ll never the same either.”
She said, “It doesn’t always have to be the same. Sometimes what’s different    ends up being better than what you hoped to be the same.”
He said, “And sometimes it doesn’t.”
She said, “Right, and there’s only one way to find out.”
He said, “It’s not about wanting to find out. It’s about not finding out.”
She said, “Don’t be scared of rejection. It makes you think too much. Just put yourself out there and you’ll be surprised what can happen.”
He said, “It’s not about that either.”
She said, “Well, like I said, there’s only one way to find out. And if you’re not going to tell me, then I’m going to tell you: I’m in love with you. I have been ever since—”
He said, “That’s not what I’m talking about.”
She said, “—oh.” (3)

A Letter for Me

I received a letter in the mail the other day. It was addressed to me, from…me. I thought maybe it was a friend trying to be funny, or some sort of advertisement. But the handwriting was unmistakably mine. Each letter, each number was so familiar. I stared at it and couldn’t remember writing a letter or mailing anything to myself. It reminded me of grade 7 or 8, when everyone in class had to write about what we hoped to accomplish or change about ourselves over the course of that school year. Then our teacher took the letters and, once we had forgotten about them, mailed them to our house at the end of term. But that was almost 10 years ago, and I’ve never done it since.

I don’t remember what else came in the mail that day; I threw the stack mindlessly on the breakfast table. I sat down facing the kitchen window and held my letter up against the daylight, hoping to catch a glimpse of the content inside. All that showed was a dark, rectangular object not much smaller or thicker than the envelope itself. I pinched the envelope at the edge of the dark object inside and was ready to tear the side of the envelope open. But I couldn’t. I looked again at the handwriting on the front and it was still unmistakably mine. I stared at it, trying to remember.

After a few minutes I was fairly certain that I hadn’t written a letter to myself for almost 10 years. But the handwriting was so familiar, like I had just addressed it the week before. I decided to leave it unopened for a day or two. I don’t know why, but I just had to remember writing it before I could open it; or be sure, without a doubt, that I didn’t. I added the letter to the pictures on my fridge and walked away.

Today, I took the letter from the fridge and, without opening it, fed it through the paper shredder. For the first time this year I can honestly say that I’m fine, that I’ll be okay. Next month will be a new year, and suddenly it won’t matter what I hoped to do or change last year because I’m going to be alright. Why mess with that? (6)

Running on E

I’m tired of running;
tired of getting nowhere,
going in no direction.

I’m tired of walking,
when I should be running;
running somewhere, anywhere.

I’m tired of looking in front of me,
when I know what’s behind me;
and there’s nowhere to turn around.

I’m tired of fighting,
when I don’t know what I’m up against;
nothing, probably.

But life happens,
when you’re too tired to fight it. (7)

Pretty Girl From Halfway Around the World

I was halfway around the world when I met her. I saw her from a close distance and she looked back at me strange. She was wearing my face on her shirt. I asked her, “My face is on your shirt.”

“Are you sure?” she replied.

“Yeah, that’s definitely me.”

She looked at me, and then down at the face on her shirt. She raised an eyebrow and said, “Yeah, I guess you are.” She looked back up at me and smiled. “You look different in real life.”

“Well, I think I look better on you,” I said without thinking. She looked at me strange again, but then laughed and gave my forearm a quick squeeze as she slipped past me. I watched her walk away. I think I look better on you? I thought that was a pretty good line. But she walked and never looked back. (2)

Joy T-Shirt

Indiana, our Indiana

“And I don’t know why I have to

but this man must move on.

I loved my time here;

didn’t know ’till I was gone.”

The Avett Brothers, November Blue (10)

Natalie

Life was complicated. The only thing that made sense was my girlfriend, Natalie. I asked her one night if she ever wanted to just disappear. She said yes, let’s disappear together. She wasn’t joking, and we stayed up all night planning our disappearance. I realized the reason why I hadn’t done it before was because, all along, I wanted someone to disappear with. It happened on February 25; we disappeared. It’s been nine months and I’m still looking for her. We should have held hands when we disappeared together. (Natalie, where are you? We were supposed to disappear…together.) (1)

Friendly Advice

I went to see my shrink last week and he said I should get rid of my fishes. He particularly instructed me to flush them down the toilet one-by-one. (It’s symbolic of something–I forget.) Apparently seeking the counsel of my fish regarding decisions in my life isn’t “normal.” I should have friends instead: “Humans,” he said. I called my shrink today and said I didn’t want to see him anymore. My fishes said he wasn’t helping. I’ve had them for 6 years. I’ve only had my shrink for 6 months. He doesn’t know me; I’m a pretty loyal guy. (4)